


The Umbrella Academy: Winter Soldier

by chiquitasdave, ratsbaby



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Vanya Hargreeves, BAMF Klaus Hargreeves, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Good Parent Grace Hargreeves, Good Sister Vanya Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves Can Levitate, Luther Hargreeves Being an Asshole, M/M, No Incest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Siblings, Recovery, Sibling Love, Stuttering Diego Hargreeves, Telekinetic Klaus Hargreeves, Transgender Diego Hargreeves, Winter Soldier AU, bc we said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiquitasdave/pseuds/chiquitasdave, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratsbaby/pseuds/ratsbaby
Summary: Luther lands an uppercut to the jaw, sending the soldier flying, and Diego’s moving before he even lands. His grip on Klaus tightens and his mouth opens to say something, anything, to pull him back to the safety of the car they crouch behind, but Klaus beats him to the punch. He leans forward to better watch the action, to cheer his brother on (or clean up his remains, depending on how this goes), and stops cold as the soldier pushes himself to his feet again.Klaus' first thought is that he’s beautiful. Klaus’ second thought is that he knows him.The threat of danger is sensed and signals fire to tell the brain,no, not yet! We weren’t meant for this! He can’t take it now!The body reacts to stop him, but Klaus steps forward anyway. He ignores every impulse because he knows him, because love makes him stupid, because he has to.Klaus takes another step forward.‘Dave?’‘Who the hell is Dave?’





	1. Good Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hargreeves meet up for their weekly Sunday breakfast. Klaus dedicates himself to his recovery. The Handler activates The Commission's greatest achievement.

He’s pretty the way a dead thing is pretty. All pale skin and bags under the eyes, all bite and no bark. He’s beautiful, you think. A soft, solid thing to look at. Your beautiful dead thing. Your calm in this storm.

You like to look at him. You can’t take your eyes off him, sometimes. Him with his bright smiles and loud laughter and gentle touches and it’s like you were made to look at him, like it’s all you were meant to do. You can’t _not_ look at him.

It’s easiest to look at him when he sleeps. You can’t be caught this way, and he isn’t there to look at you back.

His staring is different than yours. It’s full of love and promise and tenderness and the kind of devotion that isn’t meant for men like you. Your insides aren’t melted chocolate chips like his are. He’s warm and gooey, soft to the touch, lets the love leak out the sides. You are the dead thing. You are the after, the crisp edges, the dark and twisty, the part no one wants. You won’t let Dave look at you back. He might not want you. The outsides match the insides.

He’s most peaceful when he sleeps, too. That’s another thing you’ve learned in your months of holding him to your chest and watching him breathe. You’d always thought he was peaceful most of the time, because that’s just who he is: bright and warm and soft and gooey. A good man, a gentle one, the kind of man who only ever made non-lethal shots even though you know he has perfect aim.

Still, when he’s sleeping you can tell just how much the day really takes out of him. He doesn’t show it, doesn’t talk about it (nobody ever talks about it), but when he’s curled in your arms with his head on your chest, his mouth hangs open and his brows release their permanent furrow and he looks a little less wartorn. Beautiful. He looks best like this, both dead and alive.  

He talks in his sleep. Just a little, not enough to wake you, though it’s not like you sleep anyways, what with all the darkness and the excess quiet and the _looking_. You like listening to him more than you like looking at him. You stay a little too still as he twists and turns in his sleep and for half a second you think it’s a nightmare, that your demons have finally gotten to him, but instead he sleepily rubs his eyes and he calls your name.  

‘Klaus…’

He says it like a prayer. Like a holy thing, something that shouldn’t be said. It sounds too bitter for his soft mouth. He says it again.

‘Klaus?’

He’s grabbing for you this time, searching for you and your hard mouth in his half-conscious state. You concede. Shift closer, slowly wrap your arms around him. His home away from home. His presses his body flesh to yours and you can smell him, smell the dust from outside and the soap he’d used to scrub it off his hands, and you think you love him.

You’d never let yourself think it before, not fully. Obscure synonyms in place of it, maybe ( _he makes me happier than the stars_ ), or gentle touches in intimate places that let him know as much, but you never say it. He smiles at you and your heart squeezes like you’re dying and you know what this means. You swallow the feeling along with your heart and you keep quiet, keep looking, keep not saying it, keep not saying it, keep not saying it---

You say it. You’re in the middle of Hell and you’re going to die anyway so might as well get it over with.

You place a kiss on his forehead and hold him closer as he drifts.

‘Dave?’ something whispered, something soft, just checking to make sure.

‘Davey?’ once more, because you’re annoying and you have to make sure, because you couldn’t take it if he didn’t say it back. He’s asleep so he can’t, so it’s okay, so it’s only you and the moon who knows.  

A sigh, you hold him close, breathe in how he smells. You and the moon. ‘I love you, Dave.’

He shifts in his sleep. The moon illuminates his figure, dances off his cheekbones. Beautiful. You smile.

You said you loved him. Do you regret it? Would you take it back? Yes, no. Theories: there’s another life where you’re braver. You don’t say ‘i love you’ to a dying boy, and when you kiss him for the last time you don’t taste blood. His hand is in yours. You get married in the summer in the mountains, surrounded by friends / no family. You say ‘i love you’ and he doesn't die before he’s supposed to. You aren’t haunted anymore.

You can’t change it. You aren’t brave. You follow him to the front line, because he’s beautiful and you’re foolish and stupid and in love. Love makes you stupid. You get it now. You follow him and he dies, because they always do. Because you’re not the hero, you’re the harbinger. You kiss a boy and tell him you love him and he goes and dies. You regret it. You wouldn’t take it back. You love him. He loves you, and you know he loves you, because love is stupid and love gets you killed.

He loves you, and you know he loves you, because he told you as much. He cupped your face as you put pressure into his chest where the bullet lies (bandaid for a bullet wound; another phrase you understand now) and whispered his devotion with a smile- a hastily put together attempt at infamous last words.

He loves you and you believe him. Your insides soften. May you meet again.

 

 

* * *

 

By any and all means, Klaus Hargreeves should be happy.

It’s Sunday morning, his favorite day and his favorite time of day, and he saunters into the bathroom with his headphones in blasting an old Eurythmics album, nodding his head along to the beat and shuffling in time with the synths.

Ben leans against the wall next to the front end of the tub and laughs at his brother’s absolute lack of any sort of rhythm. Klaus pretends not to notice and slides over to the tub, picks up the bottle of bubble bath, and waves his arms around as he pours a healthy amount in.

“Alright, brother o’ mine,” Klaus smirks and places his fingertips on his chest, “Would you mind being a dear and helping your poor brother out?”

Ben shrugs. “It’s not like I got anything better to do.”

“That’s the spirit.” Klaus grins and purses his lips, “Pun not intended, of course.”

Ben snorts like he does when he’s pretending Klaus isn’t a comedic genius and waves towards the bath, “Just turn the damn water on.”

Klaus sticks his tongue out as Ben rolls his eyes. He then turns the music up as high as the mp3 will allow and turns the spigot.

Music was his best line of defense. War had already taken so much from him. It would not take this from him too.

The water is silent but he knows what the water is supposed to sound like so he turns his back and lets the music envelop him. He’s safe now. He’s one month free of a joint and celebrating with the bubble bath Vanya bought him to celebrate.

Klaus is ok. Klaus is ok. Klaus is ok.

A gentle hand rests on his shoulder.

He turns to Ben who mouths _it’s full_ with a gentle smile. _Danke_. Klaus responds. Or, he thinks he responds. He tastes the vibrations of the word as it passes his lips, but the word failed to breach the synth defenses, so who the hell really knows if anything was said at all.

Klaus turns the water off and inhales the sweet aroma of vanilla chai. Oh that Vanya had just spoiled him now, hasn’t she. He makes a mental note to thank her.

He drops his towel (Ben’s shriek of horror failed to breach the synth’s defenses as well), slowly hovers off the ground, and lays himself gently into the bliss of the scalding hot water.

Levitation was the newest perk of sobriety; it was only about a week old and a pesky damn thing to control. So far, he could only hover five feet off the ground and long jump. No direct flying (to his dismay and Five’s relief), but last week he could only hover three feet off the ground, and with the drugs draining from his system with each passing day, he hoped flying would be right around the corner.

The song fades out. The silence brings sharp anger with it. If the old man had just _listened,_ Klaus could’ve been—

The next track begins. Just as the anger starts, it vanishes. The one with the title of Father was dead and Klaus was on his way to recovery.

It’s a slow process. Tiring. He’s tired. It’d be easier to give in, to say _fuck it_ , to go back to the numbness and the cold and the not feeling. He has half the mind to do so, because it’d be so easy, but his powers grow and he’s getting better and now he can levitate, and both Diego and Ben had smiled wide and Diego clapped him on the back and told him, _good job. You’re doing great._ Klaus doesn’t think he’s ever been great before.

So he’s recovering. Slowly and surely, but recovering nonetheless.

A few ghosts wail and his heart begins to slam with terror but he takes a breath, grits his teeth: “I’m relaxing now, having a little me time. So if you would just please… Leave me alone.”

The ghosts quiet.

By any and all means, Klaus Hargreeves should be happy.

As he lays in his bath, music swelling and drowning out the distant moans of the damned, Klaus pretends that nothing is wrong.

* * *

 

Sunday mornings were beautiful. Klaus loves them because the whole family comes over for breakfast, and Grace makes her funfetti pancakes. It feels normal. There’s sibling chatter only sometimes resulting in arguments, and they tease each other and throw food and Grace tells them to _behave now, children,_ and for those fifteen minutes every Sunday, it’s like it’s normal. If you squint, they look like any other family. Klaus closes his eyes and breathes deep and he can smell pancake batter and hear his siblings argue and for half a second he forgets this isn’t a home full of ghosts. It’s nice. Beautiful.

Klaus props his left foot on his nightstand as he finishes his last pinkie toe, a towel wrapped in a turban around his head. Ben sits at the other end of the bed and pretends he’s invested in a book.

  
“This is garbage.” Ben laughs, “Why did this become a worldwide phenomenon again?”

Klaus leans his head back and lets the towel turban fall off his head and tumble onto the sheets, “People can’t get enough of the kid-hero narrative, what can I say, we’ve set a trend!”

Ben closes the book and slides it on Klaus’ desk. “Do me a favor and pick out something good next time you and Vanya go out?”  
  
“You got it. Y’know, it wouldn’t kill you to come along and pick something out for yourself.”  
  
“Yea? It wouldn’t kill me?”  
  
Klaus scrunches his nose as he giggles and narrowly avoids Ben’s playful swat. His fingertips barely graze the bottom of Klaus’ curls; he had grown it out over the past year, and now it just about reached his chin. It was nice to have something he _liked_ about himself, something that motivated him to get up and take care of himself. Grace thinks his curls are lovely, Vanya likes running her hands through it, and Diego teases and says one bad guy gets too close and BAM! He has you by your hair and you’re done for. But Allison always puts it up in a little bun before they go out so he figures he’s fine.

There’s a gentle knock at the door. Klaus and Ben turn their heads and see Vanya standing in the doorframe: “Hey, Mom made breakfast for everyone. It’s almost ready.”

"Perfect, thanks V, but before you go!” Klaus grins and waves her in as he grabs a bottle of hair product off his nightstand, “Come in, come in. You have to tell us, how did it go with your little date last night?”

“Us? Oh, hi Ben!” She looks around the room until Klaus gently gestures next to him and she gives the spot at the foot of his bed a gentle wave. “Um, as for the uh. The date? Heh, it was ok. Yea, it was good! Y’know.” She takes a step inside and pulls her sleeves down over her hands, “She’s real sweet. Got me flowers.”

“Vanya!” Klaus lights up and starts running mousse through his hair, “That’s incredible!”

“Yea... but I-”

“No buts. Com’on, you deserve this!”

“Y-yea,” She continues pulling at her sleeves, “I guess I do. I just I’m just… Scared. After the whole...”

Klaus softens, “Hey. I get it. But, from what you’ve told me, Maddie’s _super_ sweet and she likes you! If you’re that worried, I’m sure Diego would be more than happy to, y’know, check’er out and see what’s up.”

“No, thank you,” she stifles a laugh, “God forbid she catches him and then I gotta explain why my brother was stalking her and…”

“Ah, hm, you have a point there. Well! If she messes with you, let us know and we’ll mess her up.”  
  
“Heh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He stands up, wriggles the foam separators from his toes, rubs his hands on his jeans (he knows Vanya hates the texture of the residue on his hands), and struts over to Vanya. He extends his arm out.

“M’lady, shall I escort you to the kitchen?”  
  
“You don’t have to, I mean, I know the way.”  
  
“I know, I know. I was just playing a bit.”  
  
“Oh! Oh, ok!” Vanya smiles and takes his arm, “Yea, you can!”  
  
Klaus grins and turns back into the room, “Come along, Sir Benjamin.”  
  
Ben rolls his eyes playfully before hopping off Klaus’ bed and following them out the door.

It’s a desperate attempt to prolong the hour of normalcy he’s gifted. He’s afraid it’s too transparent, that Vanya will notice how his hands still shake and pull away and want to have a talk about how _it’s okay to not be okay_ , but as the trio saunters down the hall, laughing and happy and alive, Klaus almost doesn’t care.

Klaus deserves to be happy, so Vanya’s hand rests on his arm and he’s smiling, genuine, as he animates a story with his hands and the pair saunter down the hall playing make believe like they’re kids again. Normal.

They bump into Diego on the stairwell. He looks at the duo curiously. He looks damn tired, eyes all dark and sunken... He hadn’t slept more than a few hours. Klaus recognizes insomnia’s carnage like an old friend.

Klaus gestures to Vanya, “I’m escorting the lovely lady of the hour to breakfast, care to join us?”

Diego snorts and takes a deep breath. “Yea, you know what? I will. Come on, sis.”  
  
Vanya beams and Diego takes her other arm.

“So, Diego, I was just in the middle of telling Vanya about the time I accidentally ate soap mom made ‘cus it looked like a doughnut.”  
  
Diego snorts, “You’re an idiot.”  
  
“Maybe tell Mom to stop making such realistic looking soap then.”  
  
Diego shakes his head and laughs. Klaus leans forward to peer around Vanya and checks to make sure it’s an actual laugh, not just a pity huff Diego’ll throw at him, and his chest swells when he sees Diego giving a real, genuine laugh.

The quartet walks past the living room and hears Allison cautioning Claire away from some dangerous niknak the old man had on display. They saw Allison the least; being an editor of a fashion magazine and single mother left little room for family visits, but they always left time for Sunday breakfast.

Klaus pauses and lights up, “Why, if isn’t my favorite niece!”  
  
Claire looks away from the taxidermied aardvark and grins widely when she sees them standing in the doorway. The girl bounces over to them excited and grins, “Good morning!” Klaus looks down at her, “Would the Fräulein also like an escort to breakfast?”  
  
Claire flaps her hands and laughs loudly. Allison walks out of the living and meets them by the bottom of the staircase, “Morning everyone.”  
  
“Morning, m’lady.” Klaus bows his head. Vanya and Diego waves their good mornings. Allison smiles and gestures down to the stairs. “We’ll walk behind you, lead the way!”

They make their way down the steps as Claire swings Allison’s hand and sings, “Fräulein, zip line, forty-nine, stop sign!”

Klaus’ chest swells with endearment.  
  
“Deadline, gold mine… Uh… Mom! I ran out of rhymes!”  
  
“Oh, um, well,”  
  
Ben leans in Klaus’ ear, “Coastline.”  
  
“Coastline!” Klaus exclaims.

Claire gasps, “PERFECT!”  
  
“Well, I can’t take the credit, kiddo. It was Uncle Ben’s idea.”

“UNCLE BEN! I want to see Uncle Ben!”  
  
“After I’ve got some of G-Ma’s flapjacks, kiddo. I need to get my energy up. Tummy’s a’rumbling. _Guuurrrr_ !”  
  
Claire repeats the noise, delighted. Allison chuckles, hoisting Claire into her arms as she follows the group into the kitchen.  

Luther reads the paper at the head of the table. Grace turns around from the stove, smiling wide, and slides another pancake into the pancake holder. “Good morning everyone! You’re just in time, breakfast is just about ready!”  
  
"Good morning!" Klaus sings as he takes Vanya and waltzes her into the kitchen, “Did everyone hear the good news!?”

Luther looks over the paper. “What good news?”  
  
Klaus almost blurts out Vanya’s date, but he remembers her apprehension from earlier, how shy she had been, and he quickly switches the subject. He spots a calendar stuck to the fridge between scattered grocery lists and drawings Claire had gifted them. The date reads the fifteenth. Klaus leaps upward and hovers a foot off the ground. “I’m officially one month sober!”  
  
Luther looks back to his newspaper, “That’s nice.”

Grace brings the pancake holder over to the table, “Klaus! That’s wonderful!”  
  
Klaus bows and floats back down, “Why danke, mutter.”

She kisses his forehead, “I’m very proud of you.”  
  
Diego pats Klaus on the shoulder, “Good job, man.”  
  
Vanya squeezes Klaus’ hand, her silent congratulations.

Claire looks up at Allison, “Why are we celebrating?”  
  
“Uh, well, um, Klaus… It’s been one month since he’s been sick!”

“Yay! That’s a good reason to celebrate. I hate being sick. Mom gives me this horrible tasting medicine, I have to have a spoonful of chocolate syrup after I take it because it tastes so bad.”

Klaus takes a seat next to Diego, “Oooh, chocolate syrup, that would go well with breakfast, hey, Ma do you ha--”

Five bursts into the room mid-syllable and sits in the empty chair next to Klaus, “Morning everyone. Sorry I’m late. I had… Business.”

Diego slides Five a mug of coffee, “Any word from Chuck?”

“Nope,” Five sighs and grabs a plate, “Two weeks into the investigation and they don’t have anything. I thought the new hires down there were supposed to be _helping_.”

“Well.. Fresh faces…” Diego shrugs, “Maybe they just need some time to warm up.”  
  
Five rolls his eyes. “Since when did you become Devil’s Advocate?”  
  
“We all started somewhere.”  
  
“Unless I get something in the next twenty-four hours, we might be taking a solo trip.”

The Umbrella Academy had banded back together, well, somewhat. Allison, Diego, and Vanya still have jobs of their own. Allison was an editor, Diego was still a vigilante, and Vanya continued her violin lessons and concerts. Luther doesn’t know how to live without someone directing him (Klaus recommended the military; Five reminded them that the military writes off people with ingrown toenails, and they probably wouldn’t accept someone of Luther’s… _condition_.) Whether he liked it or not, Five was fourteen, and he couldn’t exactly get a full time gig without child services knocking on the door.

And Klaus, well, he needed a stable place to detox before he could take on the world.

Which was totally fine, considering Grace is a god-tier caregiver. She sets various toppings down onto the table and claps her hands together, “Alright everyone, dig in!”

Klaus adds everything but the kitchen sink to his pancakes. Butter, syrup, fruit, whipped cream, the whole nine yards. Diego looks over and grimaces. “Bro. How can you eat that?”  
  
“Easily. Like this.” Klaus takes the whipped cream and shoots it directly into his mouth. Claire laughs while Luther rolls his eyes. Grace walks over and refills Five’s coffee mug for him, “Now _boys_ , behave yourself at the breakfast table.”  
  
“Yes Mom.” They snort and try to hide their laughter, just like when they were kids. As soon as Grace turns around, Klaus leans over and squirts whipped cream into Five’s coffee. He stares at Klaus. “Disgusting. Thank you.”

The chatter continues, fading into background noise for Klaus as he soaks in the morning light, the good food, and the joy of being alive with his family. He thinks he’d always like to feel like this, all bright and warm and happy and fuzzy.

“Uncle _Klaus_ ,” Claire wines and pulls him back down to Earth, “You promised…”

Klaus furrows his brow. Then it clicks. “AH! Right, ok,” he sets his fork down and cracks his knuckles, “Alright, Benny, you ready to say hi to your niece?” 

Caire bounces in her chair. Klaus rolls his head around and cracks his neck. Ben snorts, “You have to be that dramatic?”  
  
“Yes, Ben, I’m _prepping_.”

Klaus squeezes his hands tight, his expression following suit as brows furrow in concentration. A moment passes, everyone waiting with bated breath, and then a blue light emits from around his knuckles to encompass his hands. He can’t help but smile as he closes his eyes, exhales deeply, and pulls Ben from the Ethereal Plane.

Claire bounds over to him and he laughs as he scoops her into his arms. Klaus keeps one hand in a fist to keep Ben grounded in this plane while he continues breakfast.

Grace walks over, “How are you feeling, Klaus? Are you doing ok?”  
  
“Well, I’m running out of energy pretty quickly… I think I’m gonna need the whole jar of sprinkles to get me through this one.”  
  
Grace smiles, knowing he’s teasing, but brings the can over anyway.

After fifteen minutes, Klaus' hand starts to cramp and he can feel Ben draining his energy like a nuclear power plant would drain a triple A battery.  
  
"Alright," Klaus looks up, "This candle's gonna burn out in T-Minus eleven seconds so if you could all wrap it up?"  
  
Everyone says their  _see ya later!'s_ and  _it was good to see you again!'s_ to Ben. Klaus releases his fist and Ben fades back into the Ethereal Plane.

Vanya leans over to him and notes, “That’s a whole thirty-two seconds more than last time you summoned him.”  
  
“Getting stronger by the day.” Klaus muses as Ben grins at him, “Getting stronger by the day.”

 

* * *

 

Vanya had suggested meditation. Said it helped with her anxiety, so maybe it would help Klaus with his recovery too. Now, it had become a nightly ritual.

Klaus likes meditation. He likes how he can exercise his new ability and hover a few feet off the pillow he’s placed on the floorboards. Levitating was a gentle reminder of his progress; the representation of potential, a reminder to keep going. He’s worked so hard and gotten so far and he can do it if he really puts his mind to it. He’s capable of that. He deserves that.

That’s what Grace says, anyway.

A deep breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. He likes that, too. The steady breathing makes him feel whole. With every breath in he’s reattaching a piece of himself.

That’s all Klaus ever was: pieces. He was fragments and scraps and put together parts of everything everyone else liked best. He’s kind and caring and sensitive and he loves his siblings because he has to, because they need him to, because he has to be their light in the dark.

They need that. They need _him_. They’d fall apart without it. None of the others want to admit that they rely on someone else, but Klaus knows it. Klaus knows it and he also knows they’re all too proud to be that someone, so he does it for them. He breaks himself into pieces and shifts around his insides until he resembles something they need. They can’t get rid of him if they need him. He’s an addict and a junkie and good for nothing, but they need him.

It breaks him, just a little, to be a used thing. He’s picked apart piece by piece, chipped away at with greedy fingers, and now he’s on the floor _breathing_ , just sitting here and breathing and trying to put himself back together.

In and out, in and out. He sits there and he _feels_. He’s allowed to just feel now. After chasing a numb for God knows how long, sitting there and feeling is a welcome change.

Hell, the last time he had felt this real was with…

No, no. Com’on. He was having such a good day. Why did he have to be reminded of him? Why do his thoughts always revolve back to him?

Klaus swallows and sinks to the floor with a gentle thud. His fingers brush the dog tags hanging from his neck.

_KATZ. DAVID J. ER  65 225 121. O NEG. JUDAISM._

He knows the lettering by heart, the curve of every 2 and corner of every E. His fingers graze over the K, gingerly cross the Z, and pause on _David_ . A beautiful name for a beautiful boy. He presses his thumb against the engraving. The word feels like home. _David_.

Damnit. _Damnit_. He was a goddamn moron. People aren’t homes. He should’ve known better. You can’t make homes out of dying boys. Didn’t anyone ever tell him that?

“Klaus?” Ben says softly.

“Yea, I’m... I’m fine.” He lies.

And just like that, the bliss of _feeling_ runs dry. Klaus craves a joint between his lips. It’s been so long since the bliss of _nothing_. Numbness was better than this crippling heartache. It had to be.

“Why don’t you just go to bed?” Ben reaches out and places his hand on top of Klaus’, “It’s late. And you remember when Five said, right? More than likely we got a big day tomorrow.”

Ben must’ve developed mind reading abilities in the afterlife. Klaus nods. Ben stands and offers his hand. Klaus offers him a tight-lipped smile as he accepts it.

Right. Numbness meant sacrificing his brother. Ben was so happy when Klaus was sober enough to give him a hug that he didn’t let go for hours. After everything Ben’s done for him, he owes him this sobriety. Klaus crawls into bed and shuts out the light on his nightstand. He flops back onto his pillow as the fairy lights hanging above him gently illuminate his features. He tries to shrug the craving off. It’s a stubborn damned thing and refuses to budge. Klaus swallows and tugs his blanket up to his chin.

He has to stay strong. He can’t give in. The craving wants to play dirty? Fine. He can play dirty. Klaus would be just as stubborn. He’s not going back. He was recovering, goddamnit, everyone knew it and everyone was proud of him this morning and he can remember each of their faces when he came back into their lives high as a fucking kite with their rolled eyes and high pitched voices laced with fake concern and saturated with fake pity and those were faces he could not ever bear to see again.

Brushed off. Ignored. Belittled. No, God no, he can’t go back.

So he takes deep breaths, inhales seven seconds, exhales seven seconds, rinse and repeat just like Vanya taught him, and the craving finally surrenders. It always surrenders. Eventually.

That’s what Vanya told him, anyway.

Now if only he could get his damned heartache to go away. His last ghost, the final boss.

Where was the whole ‘time heals all wounds” bullshit everyone and their mother was always preaching about? A year later and his heart hadn’t mended the hole death had ripped out. He puts himself back together: the pieces go in wrong. His heart comes out a little crooked. He thinks he’ll always be like this: a little mangled, a little broken, a little less than.  

Deep breath. He just needed to sleep. His ghosts will still be ghosts tomorrow. Klaus lets his eyelids flutter shut and pretends his bed doesn’t feel empty.

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of efficiency in action: synchronicity. The clatter of typewriters working in unison, a constant metal hum echoing across the lab as dozens of people furiously bend over their desks hurry to finish the day’s work. The sound of it is music to The Handler’s ears.  

Her heels click against the linoleum of the facility as she makes her way down the hall surrounded by the sweet symphony.

The Handler pauses as the fluorescent lights flicker above her, once, then twice. Screams of agony bounce around the walls. She inhales, breathing in the sound of it.

She makes her way down the hall. The lights flicker and her heart skips a beat along with it.

The staff member opens the door for her, revealing a dilapidated room. It’s small, gloomy, and barren except for the soldier strapped to a chair and the staff members that wait with bated breath for their work to begin. The soldier bites on a mouthguard so hard his teeth might shatter. Electricity zaps from the two metal plates pressed to either side of his head and dances across the metal plate embedded in the center of his chest.

The Handler smiles; she’s delighted at the display. “How is The Commission's greatest achievement?” She turns to face a staff member, short, dark-haired, and analytical (received perfect scores on his end of year report.)

“Primed and polished, ma’am.” He taps his pen against the clipboard, “Emerged from cryostasis with no problems.”

“Wonderful.”

Another staff member, tall, lanky, with a high pitched voice (end of year report noted his potential but he’s just not quite there yet), picks up a notebook, flips it open, and opens his mouth: “Devo--”

“Ah, you mind if I say it?” The Handler interrupts. She scrunches her nose and walks over to him.  
  
“Not at all.” He hands her the book.

“Perfect.” She doesn’t break eye contact from the soldier as she takes the book. She snaps it shut. “Devotion.”  
  
Immediately the soldier stiffens. His pupils dilate.

“Valley. Thirty-nine. Dusk.”  
  
The soldier's chest rises and falls rapidly. His arms twitch. The electricity crackles across his skin.  
  
“Magazine. Glass. Soul.”

His arms stop twitching. 

“Sixteen. Stay.”

She takes another step forward to see her work up close and personal. He doesn’t make eye contact, but The Handler can see the fear in his eyes. She smiles. The last word rolls off her tongue with the satisfaction of a bullet firing. Ready, aim, fire.

“ _Medic_.”

The electricity stops. The restraints open. The soldier stands.

The Handler looks up at him. “Soldier.”

His voice is hoarse, ragged, and stoic: “Ready to comply.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! dave's soldier number would have been an actual number at the time; all drafted soldier got a number in the six millions. the rest of the numbers have a secret message in them ;) 
> 
> FOLKS! welcome to our passion project! we hope to update this every two weeks or so (the goal is every other friday) but well you know how that usually works out. but we're gonna try our hardest, we promise. 
> 
> In the meantime, y'all know the drill: feedback is our lifeblood, smack that kudos button if you liked it, comment if you really liked it, etc.
> 
> chapter title is good grief, inspired by the bastille song of the same name: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wj0y5GbCA0I


	2. Send Them Off!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus picks up breakfast. Five briefs the team for an upcoming mission. Hazel is introduced to the Commission's Greatest Achievement.

You’ve always been you. Are you afraid to be anything else? You’re scared to die. Aren’t you? Isn’t everyone? Shouldn’t you be?

This is me giving you permission. When you close your eyes, do you think of what it’d be like to die? I do.

He looks at you funny when you say it, like it’s come out wrong. Worse than that: you’ve let him see the deepest, most awful part of you. He looks at you and you’re afraid he doesn’t like what he’s seen.   

And then he laughs. He laughs and you, less broken, less rough around the edges, laugh too. You laugh with him, a whole throw-your-head-back-and-clutch-your-stomach-because-you-can’t-breathe kind of laugh. It’s not funny, it’s really not, but you can’t stop laughing. Tears stream down Dave’s cheeks as he presses his face into your shoulder and you laugh, both of you, because it’s just so goddamn ridiculous and you both know the weight your words carry. 

Dave has thought about his death before. So have you. So has the person next to you, and the person next to them. It’s a war; death is the only thing to think about. If you’re not thinking about your own death, you’re thinking about the death of the person next to you or the death of the civilians you have no choice but to kill. It’s a war. There’s death. You have no choice. 

Dave thinks he’ll go out heroically. Bugs, whose shoulder you have slung an arm around as a group of you stumble into your tent, thinks he’ll make it just to the end before taking a bullet for a fellow soldier. Teddy, digging an elbow into you as you tell an obscene joke, knows he won’t make it into next week.

You love them, your little gang, you love the way they laugh at your jokes and failed attempts to use _‘Let's hat up’_ properly in a sentence. They love you, too. You know they do, because they taught you how to put your helmet on right to save your brains from being blown out and fire your shit rifle to blow the other guy’s brains out. Translation: _please don’t fucking die._

You don’t carry death the same way others do. To others, death merely sweeps the person out of existence. Others mourn the hole death carved out of them. But death laughs at you. Death carves out your guts and forces you to look at the rotten entrails on the floor. Are you looking? Look at what I’ve done. It’s hilarious. Go ahead, keep laughing. The split kidney is that one Viet Cong whose hands shook too much to land a proper hit on you and that ruptured spleen is the mother who leapt onto one of your grenades to protect her children. Go ahead, keep laughing. These maggot ridden intestines will be your little gang soon enough.

Dave doesn’t think you’ll make it. He prays, he hopes, he begs God to spare you, but there’s always the what if. There’s always the probability you’ll make it back to base, back home, back to Dave and the gazebo he thinks about building you for your wedding in the mountains. You’ll be surrounded by lots of friends and only some family and kiss each other under the setting sun and smile because you’re alive and not dead. 

Dave knows you won’t make it but he smiles wide when you saunter into the tent surrounded by friends and kisses you anyway. He tries to ease the worry lines forming on his forehead, tries to laugh with the rest of the boys when Cherry Pop makes fake gagging noises at your PDA, but you can see the stress that lies here. It’s in the eyes: tired, sunken, worried. He hasn’t been sleeping. He tosses and turns in your arms at night, haunted by ghosts of his own, ghosts he won’t tell you about because you’ve both been through enough and he doesn’t want to worry you. 

You don’t say anything about the eyes. It’ll worry him more if he knew that you knew, if he thought that when you curled into him at night that you dreamt of the same ghosts he did. Dave was just promoted to sergeant and that’s a lot of work, a lot of stress, and even though you assure him that he’s a great leader, he still worries. You don’t want to add to it. 

You tell it to him later, when he’s perched on the edge of his bed, shoulders sagging with the weight of the day. You press a hand to his back, rubbing circles into his skin with your thumb, butterfly soft. 

‘Davey?’ 

‘Hm?’ 

‘You’re doing a great job.’ 

He’s taken aback, just a little. His eyes (because it’s always the eyes, the dead give away) widened in surprise, and a soft blush kisses his cheeks. 

‘Yea?’ 

‘Yea! The guys love you.’ 

His blush deepens. He rubs a hand over his neck. ‘Oh. Wow, thanks. I’m… glad, that’s-- that’s great.’ a pause. ‘I just don’t wanna let ’em down, you know?’ 

You shift closer to him. ‘You won’t.’ 

‘You think?’ 

‘I know.’ 

You kiss him then, a gentle brush of lips against one another until his hand tugs at your hair to pull you closer, closer, _closer_. As you comply, shift closer to him, put a hand on his waist, tug his shirt over his shoulders and kiss where his skin makes contact with yours, you can’t help but think of the before. 

Before Klaus would think he’s using you. Before Klaus would stop to consider the implications of this, of him only wanting you when you’re nice to him, when you’re good, when you make him feel good. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You make people feel good. Before Klaus wouldn’t like it but pretend he does, that it’s nice, that he enjoys it too. 

This new Klaus, this new you, likes it. Genuinely and completely, without the bullshit, likes it. There’s nothing performative in how you move, how you kiss him, how you let yourself moan when he touches you. You don’t think over every move he makes and how it relates to you. You touch him and he touches you and it’s that simple. 

There’s nothing here to differentiate the before and after except for him. Before Dave and After Dave is what you call it. Before Dave Klaus was the rough and needy, the overthinking and the closed off heart and the lips that never told anyone that he loved them. 

Now, though, in The After, there’s Dave. Dave and his strong arms that wrap around you, with kind eyes and a soft voice, who keeps his light on for you because you can’t sleep in the darkness, who laughs at your joke about dead things and looks at you like you’re made of the stars. There’s Dave and there’s you and there’s no space between you so his love leaks out of him into you and this makes you good, braver, a better man, someone who kisses pretty boys and tells them he loves them. 

Here’s a hand running through hair. Here’s soft eyes, kind ones, all wide-eyed and genuine, and a soft mouth pressing to yours, desperate not because he wants this, the feeling of it, but because he wants you. He wants all of it, the rough edges and the dark insides and the feeling of choking on you. He wants to die for you. 

You have half the mind to let him. 

 

* * *

 

“Bonne matinée ma famille!” Klaus announces, toting a cup holder with four cups of coffee in it, a patchwork messenger bag slung over his shoulder that gently bobs against at his hip as he waltzes into the living room. The five Hargreeves siblings, gathered around the bar, look up from their small talk and lazily greet him.

He hands the cardboard holder to Allison, who passes out the cups to the siblings, and reaches into his messenger bag to pulls out a white paper bag. With a flourish, he hands it to Vanya. She stifles something of a giggle and takes it with a quick mumbled “Thank you.”

Five looks at his cup with his signature suspicion as he accuses: “This isn’t a large.”

“Oh, yea, about that,” Klaus stands back up, “I had a bit of a late start picking up Vanya’s prescription--did you know the ol’ man’s insurance expired? That would’ve been nice to know, but it’s all fine because I just said I was her brother and that seemed to--”  
  
“Get to the point, Klaus.” Luther snaps. 

“Right! Then I went to Gritty’s, just in time too, because dear old Agnes said she had to close up shop early. She said she had something of a... personal duty to attend to. I forget what she said exactly, but she didn’t have time to brew a whole new pot before she had to close,” he opens the box of donuts and extends it towards Five, “only had enough left for four smalls, I’m afraid.” 

Five takes a patient breath as he sets the cup down and takes a plain donut from the box, “Well, at least she’s back open. You know, she’s the only one who can make a cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like shit.”

Allison takes a french cruller, “Why did Agnes even close in the first place? Seems kind of strange to close for a week just to reopen all over again.”

Diego shrugs and grabs a Boston cream, “Maybe she got word of the apocalypse and decided to book it. Found out everything was ok and… Came back.”

Vanya’s shoulders hunch as she sets down her prescription bag and pill case and starts to scratch her arm, her nails leaving little red trails up and down her skin. Klaus sets the box of donuts on the bar--ignoring Luther’s cry of protest--and sits down next to her. 

He had told the family time and time again to stop mentioning the _A word_ around Vanya. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to feel this way. It wasn’t her fault, really, it was just decades upon decades of hurt rising to the surface. Combine that with a betrayal of the highest degree; honestly, who wouldn’t have a cataclysmic meltdown? 

And besides, Allison had held Vanya tight enough that she was able to come back down. Stopping the apocalypse just required a little extra care on their end. After everything, they owe Vanya at least that. 

Klaus reaches his hand out and rubs her arm while offering her a soft smile. She looks up at him in surprise (she always looked at him in surprise when he extended comfort) before returning the smile. It was small, shy, almost unsure; but a smile nonetheless. Klaus nods, satisfied, and reaches forward to grab her prescription. He opens the pill case (they had decorated it with stickers and sequins together when she bought it) and holds it steady for her as she gently places the pills in the slots; one in the morning, one in the evening. 

Diego hands Klaus a strawberry frosted with sprinkles before sitting next to him and leaning forward to face Vanya, “Did you make sure they’re the right dosage?” his voice is soft and laced with concern, “Not the, uh, heavy duty strength ones Dad used to give you?”

Vanya furrows her brow and places a pill in SAT:M, too focused on her task to answer. Klaus turns to his brother, “I double checked. Just enough for our little Van-Van to control it.”  
  
Diego nods, “Good.”

Five does a headcount of at his siblings and sets his empty coffee cup down on the bar.  “Is Ben here?”

Klaus, licking the icing off his donut, scans the room and finds Ben lounging on the loveseat and gives him a salute. Klaus turns back around to Five and eagerly nods.

Five takes a deep breath through his nose and flicks the projector on. “Alright. Let’s get started.” 

Vanya snaps her pill holder shut. She slips into her jacket pocket, giving it an extra pat just to double check, and turns her attention to the projector.

“Alright. So. Chuck finally called me this morning,” Five takes out a collection of film reels from his jacket pocket, “Their lead doctor on board went on a little excursion last week and hasn’t come back.”

The six watch intently as Five slides the reel into the projector. A map of the North Atlantic flickers onto the screen behind the bar. Five extends a metal pointer and jabs an area in the upper New York region, “Here’s where his cell phone was last tracked before it lost signal.”

Five’s presence is commanding, authoritative; his siblings bend under his will, nodding in acknowledgment. 

“Chuck said the idiot just got lost, or went rogue. But, after the call I intercepted a radio signal from the area…” 

Five flips another reel into the projector. He’s in his element, hands moving with certainty and voice increasing in intensity and passion. The projector displays a collage of newspaper clippings, all headlining the various schemes of the so-called _Chapman’s Gang._

Klaus leans over to Vanya and whispers, “Sick arts and craft project.” 

Vanya snorts and gently shoves him.

Five deliberately ignores them. “The call said something about finding the mole and taking down the links of the chain one by one.”

“They’re an anarchist group?” Diego says, leaning forward.

“Just some stupid gang. Don’t get your hopes up. Probably saw he was with the pigs and decided to take him.” 

Diego slumps just slightly. Allison lowers her coffee cup and asks, “So, it just sounds like a simple get-in-get-out type of thing.”

“Sorry I can’t offer you something more exciting,” Five replies as he peers into his coffee cup, “Didn’t think this new team-up with the PD would be so dry.”

“That sounds too easy.” Ben leans over the couch and mumbles in Klaus’ ear, “Tell them it’s too easy.”

“Hey, Ben says this sounds too easy.” Klaus parrots.

Five throws his coffee cup in the trash a little too aggressively, and Klaus can’t decide what the kid-not-kid’s mad at this time. “Like I said, I’m sorry I can’t offer something more exciting.”

Luther stands up and folds his arms. “Alright. It’s a long drive, we all should be ready to get out of here in about an hour. Let’s go, meeting dismissed.”

Diego rolls his eyes and starts walking out, “Thought we decided we were going to let the more competent one take the lead from now on.” 

Luther scoffs as he chases Diego out. “More competent--have you forgotten I’m still Number One?” 

Allison and Vanya snort as they stand to leave the living room, Allison locking her arm in Vanya’s. 

“Is Claire going to be ok?” Vanya asks.

“Oh, yea, she’s back at the apartment.” Allison waves her hand, “I hired a babysitter, some old nanny, says she’s been in the business for ages…” 

Their voices fade out as they walk up the stairs. 

Five takes the reels out of the projector, mumbling obscenities and a quick _Delores would never do that to me_ under his breath.

“You know,” Ben leans forward and nudges Klaus’ arm, “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing them go at it. Do you think next time we could place bets on who’s gonna kick the shit out of who next?”

Klaus smacks his palm to his mouth to keep the laugh at bay. Five shoots a glance their way and snaps, “Are you two done?”

“Well,” Klaus stands from the couch and starts to walk over, “we were just agreeing with you over there, you know, with the whole _big grumpy Number One--”_

He’s interrupted by the duet of heels clicking across the hardwood floors and Grace’s hums as she walks in holding a mug and saucer, all smiles as usual, and sets it down in front of Five. She says, “I heard you needed a little more than what Klaus brought home, so I brewed an extra cup to give you a boost.”

Five looks down at the mug, watching the coffee swish back and forth as it settles into the porcelain. His brows furrow in concentration, the same way they furrow when Klaus would watch him try to solve one of those world-saving equations: introspective, angry, and just a little bit confused. The hint of a smile graces his lips, and he nods once towards Grace in something like appreciation. 

Grace gives him one last smile and turns on her heel to resume her housework. She walks past Klaus leaning on the bar, “Good morning Klaus, good morning Ben.”

Cue two choruses of good mornings, only one of which was heard, but both understood. Grace’s heels click across the hardwood floor as she picks up her duster, her gentle humming echoing off the walls.

Klaus turns his attention back to Five, who had finally reached the conclusion that the coffee wasn’t poisoned, attached to any sort of deal, nor completely and utterly disgusting.

He rests a hand on Five’s shoulder, extending comfort. “You get used to it.”

“Don’t think I ever will.”  
  
“I thought that too.” Klaus smiles as he lowers his hand, “And if Ben were here, he’d agree with me.”  
  
Ben snorts. “Yea. I would.” 

Five sips his coffee. He sets the cup back in the saucer. 

“Just go get ready.”

 

* * *

 

The Handler looks at her Winter Soldier the way an arsonist looks at a pile of ashes: a little bit hungry, and a little too prideful- like she knows she’s gotten away with it. 

She lights her cigarette and watches him. The way his chest rises for four and a half seconds, holds for exactly three-quarters of another, and sinks for five. She watches how the series of metal platings on his chest creak slightly to accommodate the inflow of oxygen, how the hourglass branded into the metal thumps as his artificial heart pumps the blood enhanced with the DNA of the world’s greatest serial killers throughout his body. 

6’5” and four hundred pounds of pure muscle. A perfect killer in every sense of the word. He’s the act of change possessed in a revolver. He’s a revolution packed in a suitcase bomb. He’s Luigi Lucheni slow-dancing with Balthasar to the tune of semi-automatics, while Gayrilo Princip masturbates in the corner with Bathtub Napalm.

The soldier’s bright blue eyes stare blankly ahead as Hazel pops the cork off a bottle of champagne. He’s unphased by the sound of the POP that explodes from the bottle, not giving Hazel the satisfaction of a response. He stares ahead, unmoving, not blinking. Waiting. He’s a predator and this is his prey. 

It fascinates The Handler, the way that he works. She knows the makings of his being intimately and still she finds new ways to marvel at how he operates. A husk of a man, lifeless, yet still something festers from within him. He’s somewhere far away from here, distant and lonely and not entirely himself. The Handler shivers in pride seeing what she’s done to him. 

Hazel pours the alcohol into two glasses and sets the bottle down.

The Handler follows her soldier’s gaze to Hazel as the latter clears his throat. He gestures towards the Winter Soldier, “Would you, uh, like anything? A glass of water, a donut maybe?”

The Winter Soldier stares ahead. His muzzle digs into his cheeks as he clenches his jaw. The Handler smiles, “Don’t worry about him, he ate before we got here.”

If you can call sending a broth of nutrients and steroids through an IV eating. But the Handler couldn’t be bothered giving Hazel the opportunity to judge that for himself. 

“Oh, uh, ok.” Hazel picks up the glasses and tentatively walks over to the dining room table. He sets a glass in front of the Handler and the other in the empty chair next to her, notably as far from the Winter Soldier as possible. Which, generally speaking, wasn’t very far. It wasn’t a large table. Then again, nothing in this apartment was. The Handler suspects her soldier was heavier than the refrigerator.

“A toast then,” Hazel raises his glass, “to the Commission's greatest achievement.”

The Handler raises her glass before downing the whole thing in one swift gulp. Her Winter Soldier keeps his gaze steady on Hazel. The latter’s champagne touches closed lips.

“You have a lovely home.” The Handler states matter-of-factly as she sets the empty glass on the table.

“Thank you,” Hazel responds. He studies the bubbles crawling up the inside of his flute like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“Is it difficult living alone?”

“No, uh, not at all.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Agnes, was it?”

“Yes.”  
  
“Don’t take it personally. Commission employees aren’t allowed to have relationships outside of the program. It’s for the best she left you.”

“It was mutual.”

“If I had a dime for every time I heard that one.” 

The Handler takes a deep, long drag of her cigarette and exhales the nicotine in Hazel’s direction. His shoulders stiffen. 

“Come on, you don’t have to be so nervous around him you know,” She jabs her cigarette holder towards the Soldier, “He won’t kill _you_.”

Hazel’s jaw stiffens, “Who’s he going to kill then?”

The Handler scoffs, “What, you thought I set up this little meeting to kill _you_? Don’t flatter yourself.”

She says it like it’s something funny, like they’re age-old friends just teasing each other. She leans an arm onto the table and props her chin on it, “Come on, Hazel. I thought we were going to let bygones be bygones. After all, we’ve both made mistakes, haven’t we? You tried to shoot me in the head, and I genuinely thought you were one of the best of the Commission.”

Hazel swallows. The Handler’s heart leaps at the guilt that oozes out of him. She takes another drag before continuing, “I didn’t go through all the trouble of going to 1968 and personally extracting a sergeant from Vietnam just to kill an employee who tried to play a little game of mutiny. Please. We’re going to kill the _Hargreeves_ .”  
  
“Wait…” Hazel’s brows scrunch together. He looks at the Winter Soldier, “1968… That’s where the brother, the one we tortured, he…”

The Handler smiles with smug satisfaction. “So you aren’t as stupid as your actions told me you are.”

“Why? What’s so special about him?”

“Think about it, Hazel. Every attempt we’ve had to kill those sons of bitches, what’s happened?”

“We…” Hazel gestures to nothing in particular, “We sent out people and they all wound up dead.”

“Right again. See, the problem was the fact that we were playing it by sheer force. We weren’t thinking about it strategically enough,” she taps her head with her finger, “we have to get inside their heads.”

“And this,” Hazel eyes the Winter Soldier, “soldier? How does he help us do that, exactly?”

“Let’s just say he and the little junkie you failed to get anything useful out of were... close. Very, very close.”

The Handler watches as the puzzle pieces she’s thrown at him shift and contort in Hazel’s mind. A vague memory here, a bit of logic there… 

Click. Hazel’s eyes pop open as he turns to face the Handler. His mouth hovers over for a bit, the shadow of a protest edging on the pink of his lips before he wises up and snaps his mouth shut.

“So close, in fact...” The Handler slowly stands up and leans forward, propping herself on the table. The Winter Soldier follows suit. The Handler smiles wickedly at the alarm rising on Hazel’s face as her soldier’s shadow crawls across the table and engulfs him. 

“That Klaus would do _anything_ to keep him alive.”

She can taste his fear. Despite his best efforts to conceal it, it leaks from every surface of him. It’s only there if you really look, if you’re desperate enough for it, but The Handler is trained for this; expert eyes easily pick up on the droplet of sweat that slides from his cheekbone, the shaking of his lips as he attempts to form a response. She can’t help but smile at this display of weakness. 

She only has a moment to enjoy it. These things never last long.

The Winter Soldier hears it before she does. He whips out his AK-47 at speeds too fast for a natural born human being to accomplish and aims it outside the kitchen. 

Then, The Handler hears it. The quiet, quivering breath coming from just around the corner. And by the lack of color on Hazel’s face, he hears it too. 

Caught red handed. 

“Oh, isn't this just _perfect_.”

The Winter Soldier’s eyes quiver ever so slightly as he follows the soundwaves of the unexpected guest’s breathing bouncing off the walls. The Handler raises a hand. “Easy, trigger-happy. Not yet.”  
  
His finger doesn’t leave the trigger.

“Well, there’s no use continuing playing hide and seek. Come on out. Say good morning.”  
  
Agnes steps out behind the wall into view with her hands raised in surrender as if it would help her case.

“I, I’m sorry I--”  
  
“Good morning.”  
  
“G-good morning.”  
  
“You know Hazel, I don’t appreciate being lied to.”  
  
Hazel’s mouth twitches.  
  
“Trying to kill me, abandoning your partner.... that’s all expected of a rogue employee. But lying? What is this, elementary school? I honestly thought you were better than this.”

Hazel sputters, “I, I didn’t think-”  
  
“I gathered that.” She turns back to Agnes, “What did you hear?”  
  
“I don’t know I-”  
  
“Wrong answer.” 

She holds her hand up and presses her middle finger to her thumb. The Winter Soldier fires a warning shot, barely taking the tip of her ear off. 

Agnes shrieks in fear as her whole body shakes, “Y-you’re going to kill the Hargreeves!”

“Stop, stop!” Hazel protests, voice cracking as his desperation bleeds into his words, “She just wants to talk! Agnes, don’t answer her!”  
  
“She should’ve booked an appointment, Hazel. What else did you hear?”

“Please! I don’t mean any harm, I just want to, to negotiate!”

“I don’t negotiate. What else do you know?!”

The Winter Soldier locks eyes onto the dead center of her chest. The perfect target: the bullet would absolutely decimate her tissue, popping holes in both her lungs like pottery and letting the blood pour in. It’s a such a gruesome way to die, suffocating on your own blood; a fitting punishment. The Handler almost radiates with pride.

Agnes notices it too, the way the Soldier stares at her with such burning focus. And she panics.

“THE-THE SOLDIER!” Agnes points to him, “HE AND KLAUS! Oh, Klaus used to, he used to talk about him all the t-time, oh _God_ what have you done to him--”  
  
Hazel screams, “AGNES STOP TALKING!”  
  
“THE SOLDIER! HE’S DAVE!”

The moment the name passes Agnes’ lips, The Handler snaps her fingers. 

The soundwaves of the friction between her fingers snapping together reach The Winter Soldier’s ears and simultaneously a bullet lodges itself in Agnes’ chest.

It’s music to The Handler’s ears. A choked sob here, the sound of gagging as blood enters the lungs. A gasp, a cough, a wheeze: the tell tale signs. The Handler grins at the sound of it because she knows what’s coming. 

It happens within seconds. Iron fills the mouth and hands reach to catch it as it spreads, infectious, from where the bullet hit her and consequently knees hit the floor with a resounding THUD. Hazel’s wail of heartbreak is just icing on the cake. He runs across the floor and catches Agnes as she collapses, blood staining his waistcoat where he pulls her into him.

“Let this be a lesson, Hazel,” The Handler smooths her skirt down and walks around them like a vulture circling prey, “I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

She thinks it must hurt, being killed. All those synapses firing and hundreds of muscles straining and the body working so _hard_ to preserve itself, to try to hold on. It’s a shame, she thinks, for a perfectly functioning machine such as the human body to have to be disposed of. And all for what? Lack of compliance? Hardly worth it. The Handler grieves for the potential of what could have been. 

And then she smiles. 

The Winter Soldier stares at the display, of Hazel cradling Agnes and the blood splattered across the apartment, his gaze intense and unwavering. 

The Handler inhales the final lick of nicotine her cigarette can offer her. Consumed to the final ash. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

The Winter Soldier doesn’t move.

She steps over the grieving Hazel and sighs, “Commission policy doesn’t account for the loss of a loved one. But since I’m feeling generous I’ll give you twenty-four hours. I want you back to work bright eyed and bushy tailed, understood?”

Hazel’s jaw clenches. He holds Agnes tighter. “Understood.”

The Handler starts walking out of the apartment. Wonderful, she thinks. Now they have to get a temps aeternalis in here to erase memories and take out anyone who heard gunshots… They still haven’t fully recovered from Five’s little stunt, and now this?

“You’re truly the only reliable one around here, Soldier.” She muses.

She turns around. Her soldier still hasn’t moved. She doesn’t like how intensely he stares at Agnes’ swansong. For a heartbeat, she’s afraid the scene is too familiar to him.

“Soldier.” She repeats.

He straightens and snaps back into place. “Ready to comply.”

A hint of a smirk appears on The Handler’s face. “Come along, you have quite the busy day ahead of you.”

He puts his gun back in the holster and follows The Handler out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF sorry about the late update. we both got mad sick for like two weeks and had to recover.
> 
> but BOY HOWDY we are absolutely floored by the reception this fic's gotten already. we're super excited to write this and we're over the damn moon you guys like it. your comments absolutely mean the world to us<3 love you all
> 
> (also: brownie points if you got all the graphic novel references.)
> 
> chapter title is send them off!, inspired by the bastille song of the same name: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vn-6fiVkAcA


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